Nightmares
by tempusterran
Summary: The night after The Year That Never Was. Takes place sometime near the end of 'Last of the Time Lords'.


Nightmares

Takes place sometime near the end of 'Last of the Time Lords'. Ten/Martha.

* * *

The clock struck twelve with a four-note chime that echoed throughout the house. But Martha didn't hear it.

A particularly vivid nightmare had her up awake and bent over the toilet, heaving her insides into the bowl for a frantic few seconds. Then the wave abated and she fell back against the cold tile of the wall, head cradled in her hands as she tried to quell her gasping.

During the Year, nightmares had been her constant companion, reliably turning up once every other night to torment her and make her doubt her mission altogether. The difference was, however, waking up screaming in the middle of a refugee camp was acceptable – chances were there was probably going to be someone else doing the same thing somewhere close. Jolting awake with a shriek in the silence of her childhood home was not.

If there was one thing Martha could not afford to do, it was disturb her family. They had faced a year of their own daemons, their own trauma; they needed to rest, not to be woken in the night. Even worse, there was the Doctor to consider. With the damage to the TARDIS delaying his departure, he'd no choice but to stay with the Joneses' for a spell. Like her, he'd retired early, and even if he wouldn't say, she knew he was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. She knew that the minute they all heard her screaming there would be questions and consolations and informal therapy sessions (and silent guilt and self-loathing from the Doctor, of course), and she would only be adding to the ever-growing list of things she had burdened them with.

Everyone in the house deserved to rest without interruption. So when she had woken ten minutes ago to a scream building in her throat and nausea churning in her guts, she'd muffled the former and rushed to the loo to handle the latter as silently as humanly possible.

She sat huddled on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest as she tried to calm her mind. But it was to no avail. The moonlight filtering in through the drawn sheers was suddenly a searchlight, sweeping across the earth to expose her. Subtle creaks in the pipes became hostile soldiers sneaking through the night, hunting her down. Shadows on the wall of the loo morphed into long, stretching plumes of smoke over the burning ruins of Japan.

It was no surprise these images plagued her in the wake of her dream: a blur of death and all-consuming flames that she had no wish to revisit. Her stomach turned at the thought of it and she closed her eyes to block it out – but, as was the way with some nightmares, the terror behind her eyes refused to vanish.

Suddenly, despite her best efforts, it was replaying inside her head.

 _It was searing heat and murky ash and the fetid, horrible reek of smouldering flesh – the whir of machinery and the glint of blades and a crescendo of childish, maniacal laughter – blackened fumes and crying voices and the desperate screams to her, help us, please help us – fire and silence and raining limbs and smoke erasing the sun –_

The nausea hit her like a shot and it was all she could do to get back up to her knees. Once more she found herself violently expelling the contents of her stomach, eyes watering with the sting of bile, quaking as she gagged again and again. This bout of vomiting was so intense that she hardly heard the sound of gentle footfalls; barely noticed the presence behind her; the hand lifting her hair away from the splattering sick; the reassuring touch on her back.

Another terrible several seconds passed, and when she could bring nothing else up, she slumped against the cold porcelain, panting. The toilet flushed, and Martha struggled to regain her bearings, turning her head a fraction to look up, expecting to see her mother or her sister.

The Doctor was hovering above her, his brows drawn into a deep furrow of concern.

So much for resting without interruption.

"All right?" he asked softly, releasing his hold on her hair.

Martha nodded weakly in reply, swallowing hard and grimacing at the bitter taste in her mouth. She sat up a bit straighter, then stopped to take in the Doctor's appearance. He looked rumpled – something which she had rarely seen – clad in only a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, his feet bare. Immediately she felt guilty, and her throat burned as she whispered, "Did I wake you?"

"Wasn't asleep," he assured her as he crouched down, one of his hands landing on her shoulder. "Are you sure you're okay?"

She was prepared to spout something about food poisoning, or a bad migraine, or some spoilt ration pack she must have eaten during the Year. But when she opened her mouth, the words seemed to lodge in her throat – trapped under a lump that hadn't been there before.

"Oh, Martha," the Doctor sighed. "Come here."

She vaguely registered the wetness suddenly staining her cheeks, and ducked her head, humiliation burning at her cheeks. Then she felt his arms pull her in; and felt a sob shake her shoulders.

Crying. She was crying, and a few seconds later somehow her face was buried in his chest and she was clutching at his shirt as relentless sobs racked her body, completely without her permission. He held her tighter in response – and on any other night such contact would have had Martha's pulse thrumming, but tonight her brain was too swamped with the utter hell she'd been through to even notice the feel of him so close to her, the coolness of his skin through his thin garments.

Distantly, she was aware of him manoeuvering her to her feet, guiding her back into the hall. Martha panicked briefly, worried that he would take her back to her old bedroom – which had spurred on the nightmare in the first place, what with its stuffed animals and childish accoutrements, making it impossible not to think about the juvenile sing-song voices of the Toclafane – but when she pulled herself away from his shirt to catch a breath and look up, she found herself faced with the relatively unfamiliar interior of the guest bedroom.

The door closed with a soft click and he pulled away from her, his hands resting on her shoulders. Martha cringed when she saw the large wet patch she'd left on his shirt, avoiding his gaze as she tried to stifle her tears.

"I'm sorry for disturbing you," she managed thickly, eyes on her feet. "I can go, if you…"

He shushed her gently but firmly, and used the grip he had on her shoulders to pilot her towards the bed. Once they'd reached it, Martha allowed him to sit her down on the edge, still attempting to control the lump in her throat with quick, abrupt, sniffling breaths. He sat beside her silently for a moment, and then he reached for her hand.

"Was it a nightmare?"

She bit her lip, tears blurring over her vision again. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

"It isn't your fault."

He didn't say anything to that, but there was a momentary miserable darkness in his eyes that clearly opposed her assessment. Martha normally would have insisted, but she didn't have the energy to try to disabuse his self-blame right now. That was a chore for tomorrow.

"Do you want to sleep in here?"

The offer surprised her, and she squinted at him, wiping her eyes. "Really?" she sniffed.

"Yeah."

"What…with you?"

Where normally this accidental slipped remark would have had him squirming, he managed a wry half-smile. "Nah. Don't need much sleep, me. I'll be quiet, though. Won't know I'm here."

"I mean…I can't. If the nightmare comes back…"

"It won't. I'll keep an eye out, make sure it doesn't."

Martha swiped the last of the tears from her cheeks. Then she processed his words, and her eyebrows scrunched together as she shot him a suspicious look. "You're going to watch me sleep?"

"Why not?" He shrugged. "Observing the human sleep cycle is actually rather interesting. All of that tossing and turning and," he wiggled his fingers in front of his face, "eye movement."

She shook her head in tired amusement. "Have you always been this strange?"

"'Course I have. You're just noticing?"

They were _almost_ there; almost back to their old friendly banter. Of course, it was all pretence for now. No amount of banter could take the impossible weight out of his eyes, could banish the memory of the flames that had consumed the last member of his species – and no amount of their old repartee could make her forget the hell she had so recently endured, the lives she had seen taken. But the fact of the matter was, not so long ago, just the thought of sitting next to the other and talking had been an a dream. And now they were here.

And whether the other knew it or not, they were both silently revelling in it.

Martha very slowly leant to rest her head on his shoulder, submitting to instinct, taking a small liberty in the moment – and, for once, not anxiously gauging his reaction.

Had she been gauging his reaction, however, she would have noticed that he didn't even flinch. He simply squeezed her hand.

Perhaps he'd never feel the same way about her as she did him; perhaps she shouldn't be doing this, especially when she knew she was going to leave. But in the moment she was unconcerned with feelings and ethics and logic; all she wanted to focus on was the Doctor, cool and familiar-smelling and solid. Her best friend. No soldiers after her, no spotlights sweeping the earth, no ruthless machines on her tail.

At last, she was safe.

Martha's eyes had drifted shut, and she felt as if she could sit in this one spot forever – but the Doctor had other ideas. "Come on," he said lightly, gently nudging her with his shoulder. "There's a perfectly usable bed here. I doubt my arm's a good substitute."

As it was, his arm was actually rather comfortable – but the proposal of a soft mattress did appeal to her just now.

The Doctor folded back the duvet for her, and Martha found herself drowsily cooperating, climbing underneath and resting her head on the pillow. He sat down again on the edge of the bed, tugging and adjusting the bedclothes.

"Doctor," she muttered sleepily. "I don't need to be tucked in."

He offered her a smile. "No, you don't." And then he pulled the duvet up to her chin. "Go to sleep, Martha."

"If the nightmare –"

"I already said, it won't."

Her eyes fluttered open long enough to train on him in the dark. "If it comes back, will you be here?"

He leant forward and his thumb brushed across her skin, swiping a tear from under her eye. It was another small stolen liberty; and maybe on any other night it would have driven Martha to insanity, but tonight she simply sank further into the pillow, for once not analysing or thinking _what if_.

His gaze was warm. "Of course I will."

And even if she had fought to stay awake, the gentle lull of his voice paired with the soft pliancy of the mattress had her eyes quickly slipping closed. "I'll be here too," she murmured on her last shred of coherency. "You know…in case you have any nightmares."

"Thank you, Martha," he chuckled softly. She heard him shift – felt the brush of his fingers against her jaw, her cheek, her temple. "But something tells me there'll be no more nightmares tonight."


End file.
